The Unsought Present
by Aardvark-Alice
Summary: A short one-shot of a specific day in year that Ancano wishes would never exist. Mainly trying to pin characterisation down, so reviews on that would be highly appreciated!


**(AN: Well! It's certainly been a while since I wrote anything. This is something I wrote as a sample, as I do role-play Ancano on a site. I thought I ought to make a crack to point out why I was so specific about his birthdate. But yes, I hope you enjoy!))**

The Unsought Present

There was never a time when Ancano felt at home in the College of Winterhold. Indeed, it had been where he lived for 20 years of his life, but he never found himself within a moment where he was at complete peace or security; there was only a certain amount of serenity one could withhold around training mages. From where he sat now in the Hall of the Elements, he gazed over the newest batch of false-hopeful novices practice their spells, though his vision was more set within mind's eye as he cast them back to memories of that morning.

It had been a particularly unpleasant morning: he'd retired to his bed earlier in the morning after keeping an eye on a late-night experiment some students were running, thus only caught four hours sleep when the despicably awful weather of Winterhold decided to force an entry into his room VIA the window. After being metaphorically kicked out of his dreamless sleep by the bitter chill and high-pitched shrieks of the blizzard outside, Ancano decided he might as well make use of his early morning by writing out some reports. He got changed into his uniform, making sure it was spotless, shut the window (with some effort; it's as if everything in this college was broken), then started note down his observations on the trivial events involving the hopelessly insignificant members of this pathetic excuse of a mages' college, while his subconscious still somehow had the care to remember them. Unfortunately, this was not to last long, for the failing attempts of students trying to be subtle to rise that morning caught Ancano's attention. It was earlier than usual, for a reason he would soon discover, so Ancano decided it would probably be best for him to see what in the name of Auri-El could have been the cause of this. Naturally, he did this after finishing the report he was on, which was his first flaw of the day, and one that would prove all too ruinous to his day.

After taking those few critical minutes to finish his report, he strode out of his room, in a state in which, looking in retrospect, he considered his next flaw of that morning: having his mind set on the immediate moment. He did not pause to even consider the undeniable facts of that day before leaving the safety of his room, thus he had not considered that this day was in fact a rather special day to those stupid enough to celebrate it. Of course, if he had, he probably would not have left his room for the morning, and then found a way to slither to the Hall of the Elements in the shadow of secrecy. But this plan was more than theoretical, for he had not even recognised the date. That is, not until it was too late.

At first, it looked as though no one was around, which surprised Ancano mildly, though pleasantly, considering what he expected to see in the first place were a rabble of useless insults of magehood. He scanned the perimeter, before turning around to head back in his room. However, before he was able to close the door behind him, something hit him in the nape of his neck, lodging itself in his hair. Immediately, an expression deep disapproval crossed his face, remaining as he turned back around to face the hallway as he reached a gloved hand back behind his head. He thought he picked up the sound of idiotic giggling, though he soon found his attention taken away from that as he caught a hold of what had hit him in the head. He felt a sickening swelling in his stomach as the pea-sized object between his fingers compressed at his touch, and quickly found that swelling worsening as he pulled this object into view. A spitball. He quickly flicked it off of his glove, feeling a shudder run through his shoulders. The indescribable disgust must have been present on his face, because the laughter he heard earlier increased in volume. His glare shot towards the sound: a crack through a door with movements of light and shadow produced by... People. Novices, no doubt, and therefore complete buffoons in Ancano's mind.

"What is the meaning of th-?" He began to interrogate the people behind the door, only to be interrupted by another phlegmy ball of paper, shot through the crack in the door and sticking to his cheek. The mages behind the door howled with laughter, only worsening the feeling of utter humiliation and anger he felt. That was it! He quickly swiped the wad of mushy paper off of his face, before storming over to the door, holding a face of complete thunder and the tone in his voice spiked with scarcely-reigned fury. "Now, listen here, you insolent, dim-witted fools. You had better hope that I deem your explanations for this nonsense acceptable, before I-!"

Now, if one knows Ancano, they'd know that he does not have a sense of humour, and cannot take a joke all that well. So, take a moment to consider the absolute explosion of wrath and mortification he felt when his mind registered that, by opening the door to view his assailants, he had triggered off a simple mechanism of a bucket filled with the coldest water of the north to fall from its purposeful perch on the door frame, and land on his head. In the blindness that the tin bucket on his head created, he was left alone with the ashen remains of his dignity, burnt up the instant that bucket fell and poured its icy content all down his robes, the only thing accompanying his solitude being the metallic echoes of yelping, uncontrolled laughter. After mustering his will to continue living, he slowly reached a hand up, grasped the lip of the bucket, and lifted it off of his head, slowly and outwardly calm, though trembling slightly (he blamed it on the cold water to save himself from acknowledging his own embarrassment in the situation). He then simply dropped the bucket to the ground, not flinching at the reverberating clang it created. Not wanting to even look at the hyena-esque culprits to this most degrading crime, he simply burned his glare into the opposite wall for a couple of long, grinding seconds, before turning on his heel and wordlessly leaving the Hall of Attainment.

Though he did care that he was soaked in icy water, and he did care he looked like a complete wreck in uniform that was saturated with liquid, he knew there was little hope in trying to argue this case out to someone of at least some status in this wreck of an establishment of academia. "It's an official holiday of the Empire," was their flimsy, wet towel of an argument, "it's every citizen's right to celebrate and observe it, so there's nothing we can do." How in Auri-El's name is _Jester's Day_ a holiday in which it is every person's right to observe? Who on _Nirn_ was going to be offended if they were told to _stop torturing people with stupid jokes_?! It was completely outrageous to Ancano, but he apparently had no authority in this wretched place, even though it was more than clear to him that he held a far superior brain development and cranial capacity than the rest of the morons that made themselves home here!

So, here he was now, sat in the Hall of the Elements, on Jester's Day, sat on one of the outer benches, soaked to the skin, shivering from the cold and head pounding from the impact made between the base of the bucket and his head. His glance cast away from the ignorant, little mages practising what they seem to call magic, and set on a bottle of wine and two goblets rested on the table. It was never within Ancano's nature to steal things, as thieving was highly uncivilised and pathetic, in his point of view. But, given the circumstance, some may not have viewed it as highly surprising when the Thalmor leant to the window, plucked up the bottle in one hand and a goblet in the other, and poured himself a drink with preciseness that was expected of any composed Altmer. He rose the glass to his eye-line and inspected its filtration, before deeming it acceptable with a small nod.

"Happy birthday, Ancano," he mumbled to himself, before sipping the silken ruby-red of wine.


End file.
